


Arms Length

by Venturous



Category: Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-21
Updated: 2010-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-13 22:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/142526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Venturous/pseuds/Venturous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actors are are transformed by playing the characters they play. But they are not... <i>them</i>. Of course, The Bard says it better: "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arms Length

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kateydid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateydid/gifts).



> **A/N:** **kateydid** , I loved writing this for you! I hope it brings you some pleasure. I’ve never before written for Yuletide, or RPF, so this was quite an adventure! Many grateful thanks to betas **tjs_whatnot** and **elvichar** without whom this would have been nonsense. Dialog is from _Episode 2: The Blind Banker_ , directed by Euros Lyn who has a small cameo here.

_I love acting. It is so much more real than life. **Oscar Wilde**_

 

“Ben, got time to grab a pint?” Martin smiled at his co-star who was scrubbing makeup from his angular face. Despite having raked his fingers through his hair, he still looked like Sherlock.

Ben studied Martin through the mirror. “That would be good. Give me a few minutes to pack up.”

Martin waited in the hallway as colleagues said good night and techs hurried about with props and gear. He shrugged on his leather jacket and felt that old urge to light up a fag. Four years on and he still reached for one on instinct. He heard Ben’s distinctively purposeful stride before he saw the man appear, clad in his typical rumpled grey shirt and battered raincoat.

“Where to, mate? “ Ben winked.

The Cardiff evening was drizzly and they turned up their collars against the chill as they moved through pools of lamplight down the road. Martin increased his pace to keep up. Ben was ranting about something the DP had done that irked him. “I hate the way it’s looking, and the miserable tosser won’t reshoot it. Well, maybe the editors can deal with it,” he grumbled.

Freeman looked askance at him. “You want me to tear him a new one?” Martin’s eyes glittered as he tried to look helpful. He really just wanted a reason to take a swing at the man. “I’d be happy to. He always puts me in the shadow, or behind you, or sets up scenes so I look even shorter than I am.”

Cumberbatch pulled open the heavy pub door and as three laughing girls tumbled out. The last one did a double take, eyes going wide before scurrying after her friends, with a furious whisper. “ _didyouseethatgorgeousman…_ ” Freeman always noticed who got the attention.

The pub was satisfyingly cozy, all warm wood and the murmur of happy chatter. They took their pints and grabbed a booth at the back. Ben hung his coat on the hook in the aisle and tried unsuccessfully to smooth his hair again.

Martin eyed the menu card and considered how much damage the bangers & mash could do to his diet. He felt that twitch of longing for a fag, again. “Do you think this thing will really fly?” he asked, fiddling with the coaster.

Ben laughed and said “are you afraid we’re committing a blasphemy, modernising Conan Doyle? You can thank Ritchie and his American bloke; they’ll take the heat for that one. I think this will bring the real Holmes to life among fans of the Doctor.” He leaned back looking thoughtful, steepling his long fingers under his nose.

Martin looked innocent: “Dr. Watson, of course.” Cumberbatch cuffed him affectionately, but Martin carried on. “Holmes with an iPhone, really!” He rolled his eyes. “And don’t you think he’s just a bit too gay?”

“He’s not GAY,” Ben said emphatically and slowly, as if explaining to a small child. They’ve had this conversation before. “He’s asexual. And sensitive. ” He adds a winning smile.

Freeman snorted and said with a smirk. “You’ll get all sorts of fun press on this one, Ben. Better see that Olivia is feeling really appreciated. Regularly.”

“What’s eating you, Mar? You seem edgier than usual.” Ben leaned forward, making Meaningful Eye Contact. Freeman squirmed. Considered ordering a single malt. Some food. Considered punching the git sitting across from him. Considered lying.

“Nothing... bit of a hangnail, really...” After a moment he said very quietly, “I’ve got an offer... might be big.” He paused, too long.

“AND?” Ben urged. “What is it? Top secret?”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Martin mumbles quietly.

“What did you say? You mean THE HOBBIT?!”

“SHUSHHHHH!” Freeman hissed furiously. “Shut yer gob, you tit!”

“Well, aren’t you excited? You know how huge that could be.” Cumberbatch was animated. More than usual.

“Yeah, I’m bloody thrilled to be forever remembered as a hairy-toed diminutive.”

Benedict smiled his widest smile and eased back against the booth, stretching his legs out under the table. “Oh, this will do wonders for you getting those Macho Leading Man parts.”

Martin glowered, but could not sustain it. Soon they both laughed uproariously as the barmaid arrived, chewing her gum and twiddling her pen. She looked from one to another, eyes lingering on Ben’s long limbs. Martin noted her gaze and smirked. “Another ale for me, lass,” he slurred in an exaggerated brogue as he scooted closer to Ben. “But my _friend_ here’ll have a Pink Lady.”

Ben chimed in quickly, “Another pint actually, and some crisps would be lovely.”

******

There is a crack in the ceiling, and it’s longer than the last time he lay awake staring at it. Ben studied it for a long while, as if expecting it to grow as he watched. The crack, predictably, remained the same, but as his eyes adjusted the ceiling grew paler and more features appeared: a smudge, another small crevice, numerous bumps each casting their own tiny shadow.

He lay completely still, resisting the urge to sigh or stretch. It was lovely, really, staying at Grandfather’s house, with all its beautiful details, not to mention all the memories that lived there. Quietly he rose from the bed, taking care not to disturb Olivia. Without a sound he retrieved his dressing gown then moved into the hallway before putting it on.

The shadows in the upper hallway were incredible. Some kind of light on this moonless night threw the entire shape of the arched Georgian window against the wall in a splendidly angled way. The light was rippling as if reflected from water. Ben heard the wind and realized that waving branches were making the effect. Delighted, he belted his dressing gown and went down the stairs into the cool of the front hall.

Ben was not quite prepared for the cold when he opened the door, a wind that swept over him like fairy hands, pressing the silk of his dressing gown against his skin. He pulled back into the warm embrace of the house and closing the door, leaned against the cool heavy wood, breathing audibly. He’d run through this door countless times since he was a child but had never experienced it this way. The entire world was different, the same but somehow more.

When he walked into the library he could not suppress his silliest grin. The flavour of this room is so delicious to him. Ben turned the gas tap and flames hissed to life. He shivered as he slid into the big leather chair and the cool skin of it caressed his thighs. _This is bloody marvellous_ , he thought. The whole room was awash in scent and touch and colours of warm memory and books, and he slid his hand down a long thigh, noting with mounting interest the pulse in his cock, each heartbeat raising the mast.

He resisted grabbing himself outright, that would be a schoolboy’s move. Portraying Sherlock has taught him to be even more of an acute observer. _So, observe this_ , he commanded himself in Sherlock’s haughtiest voice. Both hands on his thighs now, cock rising above his lap, he blushed like that schoolboy. “Bloody marvellous,” he exhaled loudly and, sinking deeper into the chair, he pulled the silk taut and felt it sliding over his hot skin. Sighing deliciously, he spread his legs wide apart.

“Are you all right?” Olivia’s lyrical voice held a note of concern, and reached him an instant before the light. Ben sat bolt upright, hastily arranging his dressing gown. “Fine! dear, I am, er, fine. Yes, I just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.” He looked to her like a startled deer, a guilty boy. With a tiny wicked smile she touched his face and slid onto his lap. “Oh, baby, did you have a _bad dream_?” dragging the last two words into a breathy kiss. She wiggled a bit, and he made a happy sound and slid his hands up under her nightdress.

*****

“All right, everyone! let’s get moving, I haven’t got all day.”

“What’s going on? Martin hurried on set. “Oh, the usual.” Ben replied, “Lyn is shouting at everyone this morning.” The set techs are clearing up their painting gear and making sure the two walls for the train yard scene are ready, the one with the cipher ready to roll away.

“Where are my spot lights?” The director bellowed. “I want those blue sidelights on this scene as well. Damn it get those rigged now, not yesterday! I cannot have the expensive talent just lounging around.”

The smile that Ben bestowed on Martin was dazzling. “That’s us, darling. The expensive talent.” He looked so pleased with himself. _I will not stare at him._ Martin gritted his teeth and adopted an air of indifference. But Cumberbatch twirled and grabbed his arm. “Come on, this will take bloody forever. Let’s get a cuppa,” and he was swept up in Ben’s energy, again.

They stand around the coffee bar and Ben is bitching about the delays and weather and schedule changes and out of the blue Martin said: “I’ve turned down that part.”  
It was as if Ben’s momentum carried him a sentence or two further down whatever path he was on, but then he did an about-face and looked searchingly into Martin’s face. “What?! Are you barking?”

Martin enjoyed this moment; he looked at Ben with cool disdain and said, almost off-hand, “Oh, yeah, I’m just too tied up with other important things. My son’s birthday is coming round, and we’ll do more of these, I’m sure. I can’t see myself moving to Oz or wherever they’ll make the bloody thing.” He examined his fingernails.  
“You bloody coward! How can you seriously pass that up? Tell me it’s not the ‘short’ thing!”

It was Martin’s turn to be stunned. And in his typical way he paused, seeming to not-react, grew very still and calm. Then he exploded. “How DARE you, you arrogant prick! You can’t possibly have a word to say about that you...” he sputtered, furious. “ _You_ don’t have to live in your bloody shadow. You really are a sociopath, Sherlock - I swear you don’t have a clue how ordinary humans feel.”

Ben was bemused: “You just called me Sherlock.”

“Well, you are getting to be more like him all the time. You’d better take a look at that, Cumberbatch. Or go play another noble lord and get your bloody manners back.”

*****

Ben chased Martin down the set, coat flapping and blue sidelights adding just the right aire of mystery. The director and DP looked pleased. The two actors skidded to a stop in front of the second graffiti wall. Ben/Sherlock spun round and shone the flashlight into the camera.

Right on cue Martin-as-John made his best gobsmacked face. “It’s been painted over! I don’t understand it, I saw it. It was here! Ten minutes ago, a whole lot of graffiti!”

“Somebody doesn’t want me to see it.” Sherlock intoned meaningfully, looked about, then moved closer to John, grasping John’s head in both hands. “Shhh! John: concentrate. I need you to concentrate. Close your eyes.“

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Close your eyes! I need you to concentrate.”

“Why?! What are you doing?”

Sherlock lowered his hands to John’s shoulders and began to spin him around. “I need you to maximize your visual memory. Can you picture it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you remember it?”

“YES!”

“Can you remember the pattern?” They’re still spinning.

“Yes, definitely!”

“How _much_ can you remember of it?”

“Don’t worry!”

“...because the average human memory on visual matters is only 62 percent accurate.

“Well, don’t worry, I remember all of it.”

“Really?” Sherlock sounds doubtful.

Martin brushed Sherlock’s arms off and staggered a step back. “Yes, well, at least I _would_ if I could get to my pockets! I took a photograph.”

Ben did an admirable job of not-reacting to this news, and Martin stalked off camera.

“Cut!” Lyn yelled, clearly delighted. “Brilliant, lads, bloody brilliant! Martin, your irritation with Sherlock was PERFECT. You’re a genius. “

Ben made a great effort not to laugh.

****

It happened again last night. Amanda shook Martin awake from the nightmare where he was shouting Sherlock’s name. He’d managed to hide the fact that he was hard as bloody Priapus, thank heaven, by stumbling off to the shower.

He let the water course over him, hair hanging over his eyes, and leaned against the cold tiles. Moments from the dream washed over him and he wished them down the drain, but the images and feelings were persistent.

The chasm between rooftops was too far, but he leaned out, one hand gripping the copper flashing, the other stretching, willing his arm longer. Sherlock was about to fall, just beyond his reach. Martin stared into Holmes’ bright pale face, those cold, riveting, beautiful eyes, and he knew he had to leap into that dark place to free him. And as they fell to their deaths they clung to one another, desperate with longing...  


Freeman cranked the tap to COLD.

****

“Hush now! you two, SIT!” Martin hissed in a loud whisper at his giggling towheaded offspring. “Why are we at night church, daddy?” His son asked one of his endless five-year-old questions, brown eyes wide.

Martin smoothed the curls back from his boy’s face. “It’s Christmas time, darlings, and we are here for the singing.” He scooped his daughter onto his lap. “Look, there’s Mummy!” he pointed and she squealed as the choir filed into the apse.  
The choirmaster raised his arm and chords rose from the pipe organ along with the voices, and liquid strains of the ancient [personant hodie](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WM6ZhvU4nYU) filled the arched stone space.

Martin allowed his heart to fill with a familiar golden joy. He hugged Grace close to him, ignoring the bruises from the week’s filming. He would not allow that damnable Sherlock into his head, not here, not now. He gazed up at the beautiful sculpted angel that soared in the flickering candle light, admiring Gabriel’s angular face and curly hair.

*****  
Martin wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at Cumberbatch, sprawled against the wall, panting, wild eyed. He studied him for the brief second before Ben caught his eye. Then there was another long second before they grinned. “Wow.” Ben said softly. “That was wild. He better not make us do that again.”

Martin nodded, and looked away. They breathed together for a while.

When their hearts had slowed to normal tempo an awkward silence seemed to descend. Freeman spoke first. “I’m going to do that film after all.”

“Good. That’s good, Martin. I bet it will be smashing.” His voice was quiet and low. Ben continued to study him, as if about to say something, then just looked at his partner quizzically.

Martin was making an effort to avoid eye contact. “What is it you daft bastard?” he growled.

”Hmmm? Oh, it’s nothing, never mind. Tell you later.” Ben got up, dusted himself off. Martin pretended not to watch him as he walked away.

***end***


End file.
